


Careful What You Wish For

by bloodrunsred



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Genie/Djinn, Djinni & Genies, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mentioned Skip Westcott, Rape/Non-con Elements, Spideypool Big Bang 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:28:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22998445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodrunsred/pseuds/bloodrunsred
Summary: Wade Wilson is a mercenary that has had a rough life, but meeting a nameless, powerful genie certainly puts things in perspective; through trials and memories, they struggle to find common ground... and there are too many questions that need answering before they can even try.But they can work it out---Wade knows it more than he's ever known anything, even if the genie refuses to give up his name, or the past that hangs over him like a dark cloud.After all: he can just wish for it, can't he?
Relationships: Peter Parker & Wade Wilson, Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 133
Collections: Spideypool Big Bang - The 2019 Collection, Spideypool Fics that get my Potatoes baked





	Careful What You Wish For

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!
> 
> Big thanks to Nirlan for beta-ing for me, and Silly for their art!!

_ you should be careful what you wish for, darling _

* * *

_ _

**_Art by sillytheotterarts_ **

* * *

_ “ _ _ You want three wishes _

_ One to fly the heavens, one to swim like fishes _

_ You want never bitter and all delicious _

_ And a clean conscience and all its blisses _

_ You want one true lover with a thousand kisses _ _.” _

Wade Wilson has always been a person just... full of wishes. He’s wanted many things over the course of his too-long life, things he has never had the power to grant himself. From wishing his daddy would leave his mommy and him alone, to wanting death after Weapon-X, he’s nearly never gotten what he had wished for, no matter how desperately he begged. No matter how badly he’s been hurt, or how hard he’s cried.

Well, at least not in the ways he wants. The thing about wishes for him is that they come true, but always to the exact letter of his words and never his intent; his mommy died, Wade can’t stop dying, and nothing can stop him from wanting it to just fucking  _ stick _ . He wants it desperately, something that everyone and everything knows by now, yet the beautiful Lady Death always turns him away from her doorstep.

So, yeah, Wade knows what wishes are. He’s normally a rather optimistic person, he likes to think, but sometimes the world is bullshit, love is fake, and he can’t come up with enough words to aptly describe that. 

That’s why he’s drinking at nine in the morning, half slumped over Weasel’s bar, and nursing a bad headache (if you ever survive being shot in the head after dying first, you’ll know the pain), with shitty whiskey. 

“Hey,” Weasel says, throwing a ragged towel over his shoulder, proper bartender style, “if my whiskey’s so bad, why are you drinking it?”

And he had been talking out loud. Perfect.

“Because I’m pretty sure I’m banned from every other bar in the state,” Wade groaned, his lips pressed against the sticky counter. “And you’re cheap. Like, literally, you’re the cheapest person I’ve ever met in my life. Have some self respect, my good man.”

Weasel mutters something under his breath (it rhymes with ‘yunt’, if you must know), and Wade can’t help but snicker madly at the sound of Weasel’s continued cursing. He sounds like a cute little rodent, just squeaking away at the mouse-traps in the walls. Wade takes another lazy sip of his drink, and sighs. So yeah; blah blah blah, wishes, blah blah blah, life sucks, and blah blah blah, nothing ever makes it better. Wade likes being positive as much as the next guy (read: extremely rarely, and only in the company of attractive people), but he’s pissed.

All of his operations recently have been going wrong, in every way imaginable. He had been sent to Australia after trying to get on a flight to take down a trafficking ring in Tokyo, and then the plane had been blown up. He had tried to go cliff-diving whilst actually in Australia, and someone had conveniently not told him about the man-eating sharks (he lived in a cycle of being eaten and then regaining consciousness, and then being ripped apart again for three days straight), which had sucked ass. His drug bust in Taiwan had been a bust in and of itself, and now he’s trapped in this hellhole with the world’s least supportive friend. 

And, really, that isn’t even the worst of it all. To keep things simple, though, he has had a rough few months, which would make a saner man crazy. As it were, it just makes Wade angry.

Well, angry might not be the right word. Wade is always angry, at his circumstances, at his own bad luck, at himself, at everyone who holds him down… but, normally, he can focus enough to use humour as a terrible coping mechanism. He doesn’t even have to focus half the time, because it’s his default setting, but this is the kind of angry that’s licking at his brain like fire, and only stokes the furnace the boxes live in. 

They’re slightly irritated too. 

_ I hate you,  _ White says, his words dripping poison through the lines and creases of Wade’s brain like the medicine that dripped from needles at Weapon-X. Yellow just whimpers pitifully from one of the deeper crevices of Wade’s mind, while Weasel sighs. 

“You know,” he starts, sounding too conversational to be serious, and Wade raises his head from where he had previously been pressing it against the oddly sticky (God, when had Weasel last actually wiped down the counters?) counter-top. “I’ve heard things from a few of the guys that have been around here lately, and they’re pretty interesting stories.”

“Is it about how Bobby is always offering people blowjobs? ‘Cause I’ve been on the receiving end a few times, and he is subpar at best. Try again.”

Weasel stares at him. Opens his mouth, and closes it again. “You disgust me,” he says finally. “This was a normal, interesting conversation, and then you had to ruin Bobby for me. I’ll never be able to look at him the same way again. Fuck you for that, seriously.”

Wade snickers, kicking his feet up so his mud-caked boots are resting on the bar-top, not even startling when Weasel pushes them off. “Sorry, love-bear! I’ll tell you what, you can say your actual name out loud for me, and we’ll call it even, Steven.” A man in the background perks up, eyes wide beneath bushy eyebrows, but doesn’t get a word in before Wade is holding his finger up in the universal hold-it-right-there gesture. “Zip it, Steven.”

_ What a loser,  _ White hisses.  _ Drinking in the morning, like an idiot. _

Wade would be tempted to say something in response to what White had said, pointing out the very blatant hypocrisy, if not for Weasel furrowing his brow and saying a little something under his breath.

“What was that, rodent of my dreams?” Wade cocks (HA!) his head, a hand to his ear.

“I hate you,” Weasel deadpans. “I wish that you would die and actually stay dead.” And, finally, he sighs and says the best-worst name in the entire world: his own. “Jack Hammer.”

It’s barely a whisper, but it’s enough to have Wade sprawling back in his chair, clutching at his stomach as he laughs. He could help it, he really could, but making fun of Weasel is always so much more fun than being a good person. “Okay,” he wheezes, “okay. What was this story that you were telling me about?”

This isn’t the first time that Weasel-- _Jack Hammer,_ who even names their _child_ that?--has tried coming up with some kind of fanciful story in order to chase Wade out of his bar, but his excuses and reasons are always so entertaining. And, once, Wade had even found something better than what he had been sent out searching for; vintage Captain America trading cards. SHIELD always does have the best shit ever, huh? 

Long story made short: Weasel just loves tricking Wade into games of hide and seek and search in order to distract him from less-than successful killing sprees.

“A genie,” Weasel’s voice breaks through Wade’s thoughts, his voice even more smug than usual. “The boys said that they had found an honest-to-God genie, who tricked them out of their wishes and abandoned them in the desert. Interested, yet?”

Oh, very. Of course, there is always the very large chance that Weasel is lying to him (God knows that he does it a lot), but this seemed a bit far-fetched for Weasel’s tiny, not-very-imaginative mind. Every other quest has been mostly recovering alien objects from SHIELD, finding abandoned rabbits that belonged to HYDRA, and typically  _ not _ revolving around magic. Well, Wade assumes that it’s magic. Most of the alien technology that Wade has seen can’t really grant wishes; they’re like Earth stuff, but powered differently and more advanced.

Weasel doesn’t believe in magic. He’s smart enough to know that Wade hasn’t really had any good reason to believe in it either. He hasn’t had bad ones but, well, everything has always been explained to him. Mutants are around because of genes, aliens exist because other planets can sustain life too, and life is a boring abyss of people over-explaining everything, blah, blah, blah.

Whatever. Deep down, Wade is still very much addicted to the idea of something pretty, and mystical springing from the ground like flowers and infecting him with whatever good magic could probably bring.

It should be noted that he has, in fact, read Harry Potter, and knows that if there were magical creatures, they would probably be racist. Speciest? Something-ist, at least, and then there would be a war and Wade would have to kill the whole society.

_ Fun! _

“What makes you think that I would be interested, Weez? With a ‘z’.” Wade quirks where his eyebrows would be if they hadn’t melted off his face, and Weasel mimes dry-heaving. Good. 

And, really, everyone and their mother would know that Wade was interested; if not for the general idea of orchestrating chaos in the highest degree, then to take care of the death wish he had taped to his forehead and covered in glitter (and unicorns!). Still, making Weasel spell everything out is the purest form of entertainment there is, and ever could be. It’s like R-rated Brooklyn Nine Nine, but they’re all criminals and low-lifes instead of cops.

_ Someone should make a show like that! _

Yeah, ‘cause it’s not like Wade has his own movie or anything, full of romance and the kind of comedy that would have any nun bursting into tears before the first five minutes were up.

“Wade, I hate to tell you this,” Weasel does, quite genuinely, look pained. “But you are cancer in its purest form. Sometimes, I think that you didn’t have cancer, cancer had  _ you,  _ which is probably worse. Do you know how fucked up you have to be to get me feeling sorry for cancer?”

Beautiful, isn’t he?

“You didn’t answer my question, honey-bunches,” Wade cooed, pushing his luck just a little bit further. See, if he were a lesser man, he would have succumbed to the absolute murder in Weasel’s eyes. Hell, not even if he were a lesser man (he is kind of, very, truly, maybe the absolute worst). If he could die, he would be dead a million times over. Wade doesn’t believe much in natural order, but some people really just need to die; specifically people that hurt kids, people that hurt innocent people, and people that don’t believe the Holocaust happened. Yeah, you heard him right. Well, read, but--shut up!

Weasel seems to have caught on to Wade’s thoughts (he’s not a mind-reader, though; Wade has tested that before, and has thought some things he is genuinely ashamed of in order to prove it), which is something that no-one would want. Ever. “You keep telling me you want to die so much, so go! See if a genie is useful for wishing away depression and self-deprecation, asshat.”

And, look, Wade has seen Aladdin, okay? So he knows that genies can’t kill people (boring), make them fall in love (well, they never claimed to be Cupid), or bring them back from the dead (it would take a real nut job to want to come back to life in  _ this  _ political landscape), and probably a whole bunch of technical stuff that was too boring to make the final cut. Whatever, he’d google it later.

Maybe there is a Wikihow for handling genies. Since Weasel  _ did  _ say the little bastard has a penchant for tricking people out of their wishes, whatever that means. Like, tricking them into not making them? Tricking them into wasting them on horse-crap? Wade has a small amount of respect for his fellow mercenaries, but they really aren’t the smartest. Hired guns follow orders, they don’t make them, after all. Curiosity bubbles in his stomach like a witch’s potion, and he’s absolutely itching to go and find this creature in all of its magical, mystical glory. 

But it sounds fun and he’s trying to  _ mope,  _ not enjoy himself.

“It’s probably just a mutant thing,” Wade dismisses him. “Don’t quote me on this, but I think there was a whole movie about how mutants pretended to be gods and stuff. ‘Cause they were all mutant-y, and everyone else was all ‘wow, this person is, like, really good at sending plagues, maybe we should worship them so they don’t plague us’, y’know?” God, he’s boring himself now. Why does every interesting, big thing have to be caused by mutants playing themselves up? Magneto, gods, genies--is that why people hate them? 

_ You do know you’re a mutant, right?  _ White sneers, turning his mostly metaphorical nose up at (well, everything) the whole situation.  _ Way to be a bigot. _

**_He doesn’t, obviously,_ ** Yellow speaks up, finally.  **_If he did know he was a mutant, he would be trying to convince people that he was a god too. Wasted potential, truly._ **

White hums in agreement, and Wade decides that he hates the boxes in all of their terrible, horrible, disgusting, perverse, stupid-

_ We’re in your head, dumbass. We can hear you. _

Good.

“I don’t think so,” Weasel shakes his head--and, Jesus, he really doesn’t wash his hair ever, the greasy bastard--and offers Wade another drink. “You know all these big-wig mutants, and they have neat powers, right? They can do all of this stuff that can be explained by science because, at the end of the day, it’s just genetics, right? But no-one can just--just change reality. Some of ‘em can mix it up a little bit, but it’s not real, and it’ll just go away, but this fucking shit is just…”

Wade thinks back. Surely there’s an issue somewhere, sometime, that has a mutant permanently changing reality?

_ House of M was close,  _ White hums,  _ but that kind of just fucked everyone over. I always thought that Maximoff was more magic than mutant, though; I mean, her name does have witch in it. _

**_She’s not even in this timeline, dummy. And, fourth wall breaking? That’s so 2017._ **

_ Plus,  _ White says, blatantly ignoring Yellow, who huffs, _ if the genie is that powerful, and still can control himself means that it can’t be genetics; you can’t just control that, no matter what the X-Men think. They can curb it or channel it, but… _

Why is everyone being rational today of all days? Wade hates it. Then again, he thinks he might just hate everything today.

“Fine, you’ve convinced me!” Wade throws his arms in the air, knocking his drink over. Not on purpose, but he also can’t get drunk so it’s a little bit on purpose. “Book me a plane, broke Tony Stark. Jesus, did I tell you what Stark did to me last time SHIELD made him give me a jet? ‘Cause they had a mission for me but I blew up all of  _ their  _ fancy schmancy jets, and then--and I can’t prove it but it happened--I tried to crash it, y’know, as a joke, because SHIELD jets always never let me! And then it actually crashed but, get this; I saw one of his jets a few days later, and it didn’t  _ fucking crash.” _

“Maybe he changed his jets because you--oh, I don’t fucking know--crashed one of them and he didn’t want it happening again? And don’t compare me to Tony Stark.”

“It was fucking  _ sabotage.” _

**_I’m not surprised that he doesn’t want to be compared to Tony Stark,_ ** Yellow says, taking a drag of a mental cigarette.  **_The recent movies are reallyyyy trying to make him look like an asshole. Like, even if he did try and kill us with his shitty jet, let him be, you know?_ **

Still, Wade needs a jet, or plane, or boat (how exactly does one get to the desert) and he doesn’t know anyone else that knows people who are sketchy enough. Weasel can pull fucking  _ strings,  _ man. “Don’t you want to get rid of me, darling?” He winks, over-exaggerated and honestly disturbing to even do (he can’t imagine what it looks like to watch it happening), and Weasel rolls his eyes. He starts to walk away, rubbing his hand over his face, before back-tracking.

“How long will you be gone for?” Weasel asks, his fingerprint-covered glasses shining in the strangely coloured lights. 

“Uhhhhh,” Wade says eloquently. “A long time?”

Weasel seems to consider it. “Fine, asshole,” he says and, if there’s a little, tiny, incy bit of fondness in his voice, neither of them comment on it. 

*

Because nothing is ever, ever convenient in Wade’s life, the plan to find a genie (and hopefully find a way to die along with it) is not going well. At all. He’s not feeling sorry enough for himself to start believing in Fate, but he’s secretly cussing the bitch out. He always knew that she didn’t approve of him and Death, and she’s probably taking the break-up out on him as misplaced revenge. 

The plane dropped him off hours ago, and there’s no reception so he can’t call Weasel and ask him all of the important details he forgot to ask before. Like, the coordinates where they found the genie, what exactly he should be looking for, whether or not it was a good idea to wear a full-body leather suit and mask in sweltering heat.  _ And  _ he had also forgotten (read: hadn’t wanted to) google anything that could be useful while actually on the plane. In his defence, he was going to look at a vaguely informative Youtube video, but then he was tricked into watching puppies fall over their short, stubby legs. Honestly, still worth it; Wade would never want those five hours back.

The desert is beautiful, though. He doesn’t know exactly where he is, or even what desert he ended up in, but the sand looks like gold, and the sky is a stark blue in comparison. He’s not going to lie, he’s extremely okay with breathing air that’s not heavily polluted, and he could get used to it. Probably, anyway.

He can hardly imagine how beautiful it will be when the blue fades to purples and blues, pinks and gold. Maybe he’ll be able to see the stars without the heavy smog that covers New York, the light pollution almost obscuring the sight he had grown almost too fond of in his travels abroad.

He pushes the thought away. Hopefully, he’ll be leaving shortly; as soon as he gets his magic lamp and accompanying genie, he can head back to the city and have some real fun. 

**_Yeah, you really put the fun in funeral,_ ** Yellow says, sounding suspiciously like White when Wade’s had too much coffee.  **Just hurry up and die already! I'm sweating and I don’t even have a proper body.**

It’s truly not that hot, but it is humid with no wind to speak of, which means that Wade is almost ready to pass out from dehydration (he didn’t exactly bring a water bottle) and is sweating buckets. He’s been out and about for a few hours already, meaning that his suit is going to stink up something awful later on. It also means that he’s probably not going to find the genie anytime soon, and that the convenient plot-jumping has, like all things that help Wade do the bare minimum of anything, come to a natural halt at the worst time ever. 

“Why do I even fucking  _ try _ ?”

Wade kind of already knows the answer to that: it’s because he doesn’t learn his lesson. And, guess what? It’s always the people that don’t learn their lessons that end up living life on the edge--before they die early, horrible deaths, but that doesn’t really apply to Wade so he couldn’t give less of a fuck. That beautiful realisation is why Wade is trudging through heat and sand to find something that is almost definitely a lie, so he shouldn’t really let himself think at all, but…

**_‘Dem rumours be_** **_crazy._**

So, there’s only one question in Wade’s mind as he continues walking. Has he been walking in circles?

It isn’t his fault! Literally everything looks the same to him, and he can’t be judged for his inability to leave fucking crumbs on the floor like he’s Hansel in the woods; the crumbs are meant to go in his mouth, and he needs sustenance! He’s a growing tumor, after all, and he needs his yummies.

_ Make a sand angel! Make a sand angel! Make a sand angel! _

Wade will always be known for his ability to recognise when the voices have brilliant ideas. Sure, sometimes those ideas are mass murder...but other times, like now, it’s the only thing keeping him from punching a hole ear to ear, y’know?

So, after giving the dune he’s standing on a cursory examination to make sure there aren’t any deadly snakes--he’d had enough of that in Australia, thank you very much--Wade promptly flops onto his back, and hits his head on something. “Ow!” 

The sand is searing through his suit, but Wade doesn’t care as he twists around, determined to find the rock that just dented the base of his skull, only to falter; because there, nestled in the sand, is a beautiful ornate bottle that quite definitely hadn’t been there before. It’s gorgeous, a deep blue encrusted with rubies and lined with gold that branches across the bottle like spider webs. “Holy shit,” Wade says, scrambling to his feet. “Holy shit!” He reaches for it, expecting what has to be a mirage to fade away into fine grains of golden sand as soon as his fingers brush against it, but it doesn’t.

It’s cool and heavy when he picks it up, and even if he is prone to hallucinations more than others--something deep down inside him knows that this isn’t one of his moments, one of his wishes that manifests in his head as a cruel trick.

_ What do we do now? _

Wade wracks his head, and settles on shaking the bottle first. That doesn’t work, so he tries rubbing it. That doesn’t work either--and Wade has to make a note to call Disney and tell them that they’re idiots and Aladdin is a sham--so he twists it in his hands, looking for a weak point. He doesn’t exactly find it, but he still holds it over his knee; it’s glass, after all, and probably easy to break.

He uses all of his hard-learned ninja skills to bring it down hard and fast… and breaks his knee in the process.

And that isn’t an exaggeration. The bottle, despite looking flimsy and delicate, is apparently made of steel and it’s the equivalent of bringing a hammer down on his kneecap with full-force.

“Fucking hell!” Wade drops the bottle as his leg buckles, and he lets out a deep breath as his bones immediately begin the short, tortuous process of forming together like a demented puzzle. “Hoo, boy, I didn’t see that one coming. Oh wow that packed a punch.”

The stopper in the bottle glints from where he dropped it, and Wade knows that it can’t be that fucking easy. No fucking way. He picks up the bottle, shaking his leg out a little bit, and glares at it. He tugs at the stopper none-too-gently--he was fucking hurt, okay?--and lets loose a string of curse words when it comes out easily. He doesn’t have much of a chance to get terribly pissy, though, because the stopper is followed by billowing purple smoke that spirals out and around Wade, surrounding him in a way that should probably feel threatening, but didn’t.

Probably because it started to spread, leaving Wade alone to curl in front of him, forming a human-like shape made entirely of smoke, before it exploded outward and left someone standing in its place.

And that someone…

_ Wow _ .

That’s all he can think.

And the thing is, Wade has never really gone for the conventionally attractive. No, that’s a lie; back in the day (before the bastards at Weapon-X got to him), he would only pay much attention to people who were worthy of it. Of him. The beautiful hookers, the sexy strippers that would throw themselves at him like he was the last man on Earth… he allowed himself to make time for them, and them alone, because it was easier to pick them over scars and burns and cuts and wounds, the ugliness of the world painted on people’s skin. It was only relatively recently (since being a slave, a prisoner, an ugly  _ experiment _ ) that he learned that beauty is a scam, a lovely little thing that rots and decays more readily than a corpse. He understands the people he once would have averted his eyes from, shamefully, and even they--the people he had once considered freaks--would never give him the time of day.

Karma really is a bitch.

But Wade  _ gets  _ it, he gets that he’s not the hot piece of ass he used to be, and he’s okay with that (not really). He has no doubt that an ‘I’m-a-burn-victim support group’ would turn him away at the door, and he doesn’t let himself want to be with beautiful people; not seriously, because it still hurts to admit that he’s not worth their time.

He would have to be blind, though, not to notice that the man, creature, genie, whatever he could be called, is  _ stunning _ . It hurts Wade to look at him, more than looking at the sun would ever hurt him, because he’s just so… ethereal.

Not like an angel--Wade won’t stoop to being that cliche, not yet--but how he would imagine an elf, or fairy. He has a strong, defined jaw, his eyes are bright, and his skin is clear, and smooth-looking, and perfect (he’s not human though, not at second glance--not with his tapered ears, and large, too large eyes, that swirl with molten gold before the genie is lowering his gaze demurely). Even his clear, smooth skin, after Wade blinks furiously in case he is experiencing vision problems, is almost glowing under the sun, the same gold in his eyes hidden under his skin. Like his skin is thin, pale tinted, but thin, and he has precious metals for blood, glinting just below the surface.

Then the beauty, the angel ( _ there we go,  _ White snarks), the male-version of Aphrodite drops to his knees like it’s the most natural thing in the world, sand flying to meet the wind. “Master,” the genie says, and a single word shouldn’t sound so coy, so lovely, but it  _ does.  _ If the genie takes his wishes, his life, it’ll still be the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Wade is entranced, and he fucking  _ revels  _ in it. “I live to serve you.” The genie says, eyes not lifting to meet Wade’s gaze, admiring the grains of sand like there could somehow be a treasure in the sauna of a desert as lovely as him.

It’s like the positions are wrong, reversed; if anyone should be on their knees in this situation, it’s Wade. He opens his mouth to say so, but his vocal cords freeze him, luckily, and stop him from making the crude joke that would scare the genie away.

Man, Wade really needs to find out his name--calling him  _ the genie  _ feels a bit dehumanising. Even if he isn’t really, well,  _ human  _ at all.

“You can get up, you know,” Wade says, just a little uncomfortable. Sure, some of his bedroom habits are questionable at best (and downright nasty at worst), but this isn’t his bedroom, and hot-stuff isn’t going to want to be his boyfriend no matter how prettily (ha! Imagine being  _ pretty _ ) Wade begs. “I dunno the code for, like, magic, but you shouldn’t have to be uncomfortable. I mean, I feel like a creep because I’m only slightly young, which means pretty old, and you’re a twink, right? You geddit, jailbait?”

The genie’s head snaps up, dark hair floating around his head like a halo (God, cliches are the  _ worst  _ and Wade can’t help but love it and also everything about this strange, lovely man _ ),  _ and his beautiful, too-large eyes are narrowing like he doesn’t understand what Wade is saying. “I’m perfectly comfortable on my knees,” the genie says matter-of-factly and, for the first time, Wade notices the slight accent that plays on his words, curling the end of them on the tip of his tongue like he isn’t sure how to get the taste of something out of his mouth. It’s not overwhelming, but it’s there and unplaceable despite Wade’s extensive travels. “I assure you of that, my master.”

Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ , he is not allowed to say that. The devilish little bastard is, under no circumstances, allowed to say anything like that ever again in that  _ tone. _ A hysterical giggle slips from Wade’s throat at the (unintended, he’s absolutely positive) innuendo, and the genie cocks his head, much like a confused, adorable puppy. He’s a baby labrador, a welsh springer spaniel, a shiba inu, everything rolled into one, adorable little creature that Wade wants to squish. 

He slaps himself mentally before he slips into the mindset of viewing this little waif of a man as less of a threat because of his looks. It has happened before, and one can only be burned by a pretty face a few times before wising up to the game of life and its cruel twists.

“You’re laughing,” the genie says, hesitantly, like he’s not sure if he should question Wade’s behaviour, but is confused enough that he feels the need to anyway. “At me?”

Well, Wade wasn’t laughing at him as much as he had been laughing at how wonderfully and charmingly naive this spirit is, but he supposes that it isn’t the genie’s job to know that. “No,” he shakes his head empathetically, so hard in fact that he thinks his mask might fly off, never to be seen again. “What’s your name, anyway, oh wise, beautiful spirit?”

Okay, so, giving out compliments is fun! He compliments Weasel, he compliments Domino, he compliments Wolverine (on ‘dat  _ ass) _ , but he’s never felt so pleased as he does when the genie flushes, gold turning to rose quartz at his cheeks and spreading down his--geez, how hadn’t Wade noticed--barely covered chest. 

“You want to know my name?” The genie actually does ask this time, looking so taken aback that Wade could cry on his behalf. “Why? Names are powerful,  _ rayiys _ , is that why you want to know it?”

Holy heck in a handbasket, who had hurt this poor baby? And, more importantly, are they still alive so Wade can rip their heads off and toss them into a shark-tank? He hopes so. “No, baby-boy, no, you have me all wrong,” Wade holds his arms up and makes an  _ x  _ with them, just to show the beautiful boy just how wrong he is. “I want to know what I can call you, y’know? ‘Cause you’re a person, and I hate, hate, hate when people get treated based on what they can do, instead of, like, who they are.”

Ew, Wade is getting emotional and relating to someone--cringe alert.

A smile slides onto the genie’s face like water, cunning and smart and wicked enough to make Wade’s heart skip several beats, before it vanishes like the tide retreating. “Do you wish to know what you may call me, master?”

There’s barely any tell at all. If Wade weren’t the most paranoid fucker to ever walk the Earth, he has no doubt that he would have fallen for the genie’s sleight of hand in his phrasing. Lucky him, being suspicious of everything and everyone (no matter how gorgeous they are), has finally become useful! “Well that depends, dearest,” Wade says. “How many wishes do I have? And, will it be your real name, or just a name you make up for me to call you?”

Oh, Wade is so good at this. Fuck yeah!

Clearly, the genie had not been expecting him to possess more than two braincells. And, honestly, Wade can’t blame him; he is wearing a leather suit in a literal desert, after all, and he came to a desert in search of what he had thought was a fantasy. Thinking about his poor choices only really really reminds him of one thing, though, chafing will be such a bitch later. “My name is Eankabuti, master,” he says, low and sweet now that his plan, whatever it had been previously, has been thwarted (at least temporarily). “Though that is not the name I was given at the time of my creation. Your wishes are unlimited until you give me up of your own volition.”

Huh, Wade cocks his own head now. Why even bother trying to duck out of a wish, when there would just be more later? He really had to brush up on his genie lore, later; he was going to do it on the plane... but then he didn’t feel like it, and so he didn’t. “Remind me to be careful of how you phrase things later on, then,” Wade says, and then throws his hands up in the universal ‘please leave me alone, I surrender’ position when Eankabutir--his name is so adorable and fresh, Wade loves it--moves to snap his fingers. “That was not a wish, by the way!” What if Eankabuti, bless his evil soul, did something awful if he did wish for that? No thank you, sir, he’s doing terribly without being cursed by a genie that hates his guts. Or doesn’t hate him, and just wants to fuck with him. Schematics.

That’s the kind of behaviour that Wade can get behind; pure, unadulterated chaotic-neutrality. 

Eankabuti finally moves to stand, graceful and practiced; like he could do it in his sleep if he needed to. Wade catches glimpse of black rings that encircle the joint of his elbows, and then his wrists, though the ones on his wrist extend to his fingertips like dark, short gloves. Covering the most of that, however, were oddly shaped bracelets, clunky around his wrist and tapering off into a small circle towards the middle of his palm. Wade kind of digs the look, he won’t lie. Curiouser and curiouser, this genie. 

“You are staring,” Eankabuti says, crossing his arms over his chest, dark hands standing out stark against gold. His shirt--though it could barely be considered one-- flutters around his waist, reminding Wade somewhat of Aladdin (though heavily embroidered, with muted red and blue designs creeping along the fabric). “Why? Not expecting me to have legs, master?” Wade wouldn’t call the smile that follows  _ cruel,  _ per se, but it’s definitely not nice; it’s slightly crafty, a dash of cunning thrown in there. Wade would be scared if it weren’t so surprisingly hot--no, he’s actually still scared but it’s kind of working for him. “Your friends came with similar weapons, and they were all very surprised as well.”

Wade considers the lovely paradox that Eankabuti has become. Maybe it’s a cultural thing--holy shit, do genies have a separate culture from humans? What the fuck? The idea of there being a sub-community of genies sounds like the plot to a long-winded YA best-seller--but Wade would have thought that genies would be slightly less obviously snarky (though still somewhat respectful? What?).

“Sweetheart,” Wade starts, because he can’t let the poor soul labour under the assumption that Wade has  _ friends _ , but his attention is split between talking and trying not to stare at his legs (clad in billowy pants similar to his top). It is a bit weird, now that he thinks about it. “No-one likes me. Well, Weasel might a little bit, and Domino tolerates me, and Colossus kind of wants to bone me, and Yukio and I are twins, but aside from them, I can guarantee that you did not meet a friend of mine.”

Eankabuti blinks, long, dark lashes that kind of remind Wade of spider-legs, brushing his cheeks. “But… they brought weapons like you did. They spoke with the same accent you have, in the same language. Does that not make you friendly with them, if you share the same interests, master?”

He’s like a toddler, or a five-year-old boy at kindergarten; the kind of young that thinks he knows things, but still plays association to figure said things out. “I’m friendly with everyone, baby boy, but that’s not what friendship is. Though I guess I really can’t tell you L-O-L-” baby boy takes a moment to repeat the acronym under his breath, and Wade pauses obligingly, “-because I suck at relationships. Plus, like, a million percent of the world owns guns, though my babies have an extra alien  _ oomph,  _ you know what I’m saying?”

Is that factually correct? Probably not, but since when does being right mean anything? Eankabuti opens his mouth, before promptly closing it again. Wade can’t bring himself to blame the poor kid--he’s a bit much, even for seasoned bullshitters like the X-Men.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I can and can’t do, my master?” Eankabuti asks, like he’s a boss somewhere that’s explaining something to the befuddled new employee for the fifth time in one day. Wade supposes that he probably has had a lot more experience when it comes to wishes and how people, you know, normally react when there’s someone that can bring them to life, but he doesn’t care. “That’s what you’re  _ supposed  _ to do, that’s what  _ everyone _ does.”

Well, it sounds like  _ someone  _ has control issues over this (which is actually pretty interesting, considering the actual dynamic here).

Because Wade is nothing if not polite (he cackles internally at the very  _ concept  _ of him not being the complete asshole he knows he is), he rolls his eyes under the mask--based on the way Eankabuti bristles slightly, he guesses that he saw the motion too. “Okay, eankabuti,” Wade says, clasping his hands together and pointing both of his index fingers at the man. “What can’t you do?”

Eankabuti brightens immediately at the question and, if Wade had thought he looked like the sun before, he all but glows now, clapping his own hands together. “Per Genie Law,” he starts grandly, and Wade quirks where his eyebrow would be if he weren’t, well, mutilated. “As a Genie, I am not allowed to kill someone on your behalf, make someone fall in love, or bring back the dead, master.” Gosh, the whole  _ master  _ thing might be going to Wade’s head in the worst way possible. Like, it’s cool and all, but it also makes Wade feel like a piece of shit. No-one deserves to have a master, or bow to someone else when they’re clearly more powerful (unless it’s, like, a kink, because he could  _ definitely  _ get behind that). He does take note of the loopholes in the law, though, and decides to comment on it (not because he wants to prove himself worthy of the genie, of course).

“Nice loopholes, there,” Wade says, and immediately regrets it when the beauty’s face crumples like paper. Fuck, fuck, fuck, why does he have to be the  _ worst? _

“I…” Eankabuti obviously doesn’t know what to say or do, and Wade could really slap himself right about now. He opens and closes his mouth, like he’s looking for the right words before he settles on: “I understand that it is your desires I must obey, my master, though you must understand that my limitations are in place for a reason.”

_ I thought he was supposed to, like, be all chaos and stuff. Not obey a dumb law. Make him turn someone into a stick and then break the stick in front of him! _

**_No, don’t! He’s too pretty to permanently scar!_ **

“Don’t worry I’m not going to make you turn someone into a stick and then break the stick in front of you,” Wade says. “I never even thought of it, never even pictured that. Never. You don’t even have to worry, babe. Will not take advantage of that. But, hey how do you feel about assisted suicide?”

The fish-face Eankabuti makes suits him entirely too well, Wade decides, as Eankabuti struggles to find words for the second time in five minutes. “I… am glad that you won’t do that.” He says, somewhat fretfully. “I also believe what you just said goes against my laws against killing. Killing you on your behalf is… still killing. I apologise.”

Awwww, baby is still clinging to morality! Lovely. Wade isn’t an idiot, okay, he just acts like one, which is why he does stop and ask himself why a genie would even abide by those dumbass rules if he’s meant to be the literal embodiment of chaos. Surely chaos wouldn’t care about life or death if it couldn’t relate at all… right? Either way, the genie’s stubbornness--and his looks, because  _ damn _ \--is throwing a decently large wrench in his plans for, y’know, death. But that can always wait for later; for now, Wade is more than content to have a little fun with absolute power. He’s only super-human after all, and if Eankabuti is half as powerful as Wade thinks he is, and every fictional piece about genies suggests, then there’s not much outside of his grasp.

_ I want to own the entire world. Make it happen. _

There are so many ways that Wade could take advantage of this but, for now, he just wants one thing.

“So, if I ask you to come to New York with me…”

Eankabuti’s mouth screws up. “I have to go with you,” he confirmed. “Would you like me to take us there now?”

It’s tempting, it really is, but if Wade is going to play around with this then he kind of wants to know more. It isn’t like he’s some kind of stupid business owner, who doesn’t care about the people who are actually doing the work… and since Eankabuti is throwing off big people-pleaser vibes, they really, really need to work on their boundaries.

There are whispers in his brain that don’t necessarily come from the boxes, and they send a shiver running down Wade’s spine.

He isn’t a good guy, he doesn’t think. He has stolen, killed, lied and cheated, and even though that’s targeted towards mostly bad guys… he doesn’t want to do to Eankabuti what someone else has clearly done to him before. He doesn’t want to be one of the reasons that Eankabuti isn’t the firecracker that Wade can see under his surface.

He realises that Eankabuti is waiting for his command, so he snaps back to attention and shakes his head. “Nah,” he says, waving his hands--one of which is still holding on firmly to the bottle--and turning on his heel. “I have a jet, so we’re travelling in style, bay-beeee!”

Eankabuti blinks, as though he’s not used to people not using their wishes immediately; or maybe he’s just not absolutely clear on what a jet actually is. Wade waits expectantly for him to say something that will indicate one way or another, but all the genie says is: “Yes, master.”

Well… Wade can just wait to find out which one it is. He has more important things to find out about first. 

Eankabuti trails along behind him, and when Wade looks behind him to check that, his golden eyes are fixed on his bottle. “You want it?” Wade asks after a good few minutes of silence, during which Eankabuti’s eyes haven’t once strayed from the bottle even once. “It’s yours, so if you want it…”

Can genies even ask for things? Eankabuti hasn’t really been confrontational much at all. Wade is willing to bet he could treat the tiny fae-like creature like he’s dirt under his combat-boots, and Eankabuti wouldn’t have anything to say about it at all.

**_You could do anything you wanted!_ **

It isn’t a comforting thought. Not in the way it would have been five, ten years ago when Wade was more Deadpool the mercenary than he was Wade the human, and favoured his ability to do what he wanted, whenever he wanted to, in order to get cash to spend on stuff that he didn’t really need.

Being… disfigured… isn’t amazing. But looking like a monster has turned him into more of a human than he ever was before.

“You…” Eankabuti trails off like he’s not sure of what he’s meant to say, like he’s trying to think of an answer to a test in a different language on a topic he’s never even heard of. “You want to give my--the bottle back?” Despite the fact that he’s obviously hesitant, his walk doesn’t falter and he walks slightly behind Wade’s heel, like a dog by its master. It’s… disquieting in a very blameless way.

“Sure,” Wade shrugs, and tosses it to Eankabuti. It had been, admittedly, a bad throw, but Eankabuti snags it with just his fingertips, and continues walking. His expression, though, clears like a stormy day exposed to sunlight, and he looks childishly happy as he transfers it from hanging from his fingertips, to actually cradling it against his chest like it’s a teddy bear instead of cool glass. “How do you feel about being interrogated while we walk? Or you can just stand there while I talk. I’m very chatty, just so you know, and so are the voices in my head--it’s very vogue right now, being crazy, so remember me as being unique once I’m dead--so just say the word and I’ll tell you about me.”

He drags Eankabuti forward by linking their elbows, forcing the genie to match his pace. They’re kicking sand up with their feet so it’s clinging to Eankabuti’s clothing, and worming its way into Wade’s boots. 

“Okay,” Eankabuti says, and he falters in his walk like he wants to draw back. Wade doesn’t let him, though, and instead picks up the pace so that Eankabuti has to as well, just so he doesn’t fall. “You wish to know more about my kind?”

Wade blows out a deep breath. “Not unless you want to,” he says gently, before bursting out like a songbird with a new song. “So, I was born approximately a million years ago…” Wade begins, and when he looks at Eankabuti, Eankabuti looks confused at some points, and awed at others, but he looks like he is  _ listening. _

Somehow, that’s all Wade has ever wanted.

*

“So… you look strange under your mask?” Eankabuti asks eventually, almost meekly, as he glances up at Wade. They’re (probably) almost at the jet, if Wade’s tracking device that he left on it is serving its purpose correctly. Wade’s excitement had already been growing during the long walk as he described his life for the genie, and Eankabuti’s interest--no matter where it’s directed--is very welcome as long as it isn’t to question whether or not he wants to know this or that about genies.

“Woah, way to be PC, my spidery-man” Wade confirms, tugging at the neck of his mask. The nickname, of course, comes from Google Translate. “I look like a regular ole mountain troll under here; and before you get any ideas, you don’t wanna see that, trust me.”

**_You used Google Translate, but me and Whitey are fluent in Arabic so…_ **

Yellow is a little bit of a condescending A-Hole when he wants to be; if Wade were alone, he’d be tempted to respond but considering the company he’s in, he has a feeling that might officially overwhelm the poor dude.

Doesn’t matter either way, because something about Wade’s last sentence catches Eankabuti’s attention. “I saw a mountain troll once,” he whispers, like he’s breaking some important rule. Wade is hooked from the second he opens his mouth, of course. “It was in the days of olde, before man had sprouted from the ocean. They lived in the bases of the mountains, after they dug holes from the solid rock there… I nearly got squashed!”

_...No fucking way. _

**_Excuse me?_ **

“You’re not telling me that trolls and fairies and magic exist, are you?” Wade asks, coming to a dead halt. Eankabuti’s face falls back into the same worried expression he had worn before and he only inclines his head slightly, but Wade continues talking. “Holy shit! You’re a treasure trove, baby boy.”

A cool, calculating glint that is quickly becoming very familiar settles in Eankabuti’s eyes. “Do you  _ like  _ treasure, master?”

_ And  _ he’s back. The same self-assured genie that knows what is expected of him and is ready to get Wade in the headspace where he’ll be willing to make risky, lose-a-genie kind of wishes. “I’m assuming that’s how you got the other Johns to give you up, right?” At Eankabuti’s deer-in-headlights look, he continues. “You know, get them in that headspace and take advantage of them being idiots, and then pull an Aladdin ending on them?”

“I-”

Wade keeps walking. “Nah, don’t worry. I respect that,” he says. “I get it. But don’t try it on me.”

He can just tell that Eankabuti wants to say,  _ “Do you want to wish that?”  _ or something equally dumb, but the genie lets his mouth close with a click after a mental war flashes across his face. After a few seconds of silence, what he really says is only, “...Yes, master.” Wade knows that his cunning little mind is spinning to come up with loopholes and ways to get around what Wade said, even if it isn’t even a real wish.

“So tell me about yourself,” Wade encourages, and doesn’t expect Eankabuti to actually do it.

He doesn’t look like he really wants to, his beautiful eyes turned down and his entire body curling in on itself like a dying spider, but he does. “I am a genie,” Eankabuti says, and Wade struggles not to say  _ duh.  _ “I was not born as this Earth was, not like others were: I was blessed by my Goddess Mother when I was just a small spiderling, after I prayed and prayed to be like man.” He looks up, his long lashes brushing his cheeks, and there’s something in his gaze that makes Wade look away, a heat blooming through his body that has nothing to do with the heat. “She answered my prayers, and I took on a human form. But I sacrificed my lifespan and my family, my freedom as well for it.”

Wade… can relate. It’s somewhat pathetic that so much of his life can be painted using the bare bones and a paint-by-number of Eankabuti’s story.

“Do you regret it?” He asks, his voice thick with emotion that he hasn’t felt in a long time. Really, who is he kidding? Of course the kid regrets it--Wade sure fucking does, and he’s reminded of that unfortuate fact every day.

Eankabuti just sighs. “It wouldn’t matter either way.”

Wade could disagree. He could probably say anything to make Eankabuti feel better; an anecdote of understanding, an apology, anything at all that might have made the burden that Wade used to bear any easier on him, when he was an open, bloody wound, but he doesn’t. He can’t bring himself to even look at Eankabuti, and his too big eyes and his too big soul let alone tell him anything about the world.

The world chews people up and it spits people out, and Eankabuti… he doesn’t need to be told that. Wade will bet money that he doesn’t need to ordered to face that fact, and if he tells him to do something, there’s a really large chance that Eankabuti will just do it, whether he actually wants it or not. 

“Okay,” Wade says lamely. “Okay--yeah, that’s fair.”

LIfe has never been fair, but now he’s getting riled up for Eankabuti; a pipsqueak with a childish demeanour except for when the veil is lifted and he’s revealed as the wreck he really is under the paintjob. Wade doesn’t know, he really doesn’t, why he didn’t consider that there might be cracks in the bricks, holes in the plaster, hastily and messily disguised by purple smoke and jewels that dangle from his clothes and body. He’s getting angry, and for fucking  _ what?  _ A kid that he came here just to take advantage of?

It’s easy to feel righteous in normal situations but now, when Wade is doing exactly what he’s angry that other people did and will continue to do for centuries and centuries more, he feels unease coiling in his gut, akin to when he was first skewered through his middle for the first time.

“You’ve had it rough, huh, kid?” Wade eventually says--because staying quiet really isn’t his style--still staring at his boots. 

“I have suffered grievances steep and worthy of the life I have been blessed with,” Eankabuti shrugs his shoulders. “My life began with wishes, so that I grant them is only fair.”

That’s fair. Eankabuti is basically just describing karma, right? “So you said you were a spiderling? As in a baby spider? Please explain everything about that so I don’t have to talk anymore. Ever again. Please.”

  
The New York motel isn’t great. The sign flickers as they stand outside, Eankabuti holding onto his bottle fretfully, the rubies glinting in the setting sun. The flickering sign has bright pinks and greens and blues, that Eankabuti is seemingly entranced by. When Wade edges slightly to the side, looking at him, he finds himself all but hypnotised too (though not entirely by the lights alone). The lights reflect in Eankabuti’s eyes, the neon flashing mixing with gold perfectly, all but swallowing the sign entirely. Wade would be hard pressed not to find it absolutely stunning. Eankabuti really is something else.

_ A hottie! _

**_A spider-god-thing!_ **

He’s actually just… really adorable. This isn’t the first time that Eankabuti has reminded him of a child, and while he’s undeniably not one, there’s a certain amount of  _ je ne sais quoi  _ that graces his face at the sight of the things that Wade is just used to taking for granted, and it’s more endearing than he ever could have expected.

“This place is beautiful,” Eankabuti breathes, and it’s hard to see it. The expression doesn’t drip from his face as they walk through the grubby interior, with suspicious-looking stains on the wall and clumpy carpet. “So it’s a home for people without homes? For them to stay? That’s admirable.”

“Until they suck all your money out of you,” Wade snorts, but backtracks when that comment--instead of the frankly actionable state of the motel-- is what makes Eankabuti still, his fingers tugging at the curious bands around his wrists as though he disagrees but doesn't want to say anything. Wade wants to let Eankabuti break free, wants to watch him explode like the beautiful firework Wade knows that he can be, that he's probably supposed to be as the most powerful guy in the room. Though... It's most likely for the best that Eankabuti isn't , like, Ajax levels of narcissist or psychotic. Just imagining Francis, the idiot, actually having power is enough to actually create a spark of genuine anger; not that he doesn’t already hate the guy (despite the fact that he has been dead for a good while now), it’s just hard to stay angry at a guy whose parents hated him enough to name him Francis.

“Do we have money then?” Eankabuti asks, and Wade is glad that he’s opening up enough to ask all of the little questions his heart desires. “We mustn’t stay long if it’s just going to take all of our money away.”

**_He’s so cute. Squish him!_ **

Wade is very, very tempted to squeeze Eankabuti’s cheeks together until he looks like a fish, but he holds himself back. “Don’t you worry about money, baby boy,” he says, winking through the mask. “I’m Deadpool--I don’t  _ need  _ money.”

They walk up to the front desk and, to his credit, the pimply faced teenager that’s sitting there doesn’t spare Eankabuti with his strange eyes, ears, and skin a glance; but, that’s mostly because his gaze is fixed on Wade, eyes wide with fear.

Wade isn’t proud of his past--okay, he is a little bit, of some of it--but there are some undeniable perks.

“D-do you need a room, uh, sir?” The teen asks, his face draining of all colour as his stringy hair falls into his face. “I mean--I can just take you to one? A room? A really good one? And then that’s it? If you want it?”

“What if I said,” Wade says, voice turning low and menacing. “That I’m here for you.” The half scream-half whimper the guys lets out is kind of funny, but Wade isn’t a total dick. Not to kids at least. “Naw, I’m just fucking with you. Any chance you could take us to your best double-bed room, good sir?”

The guy all but falls over himself, fumbling with a collection of keycards and pulling one out of the pile. “Do you need me--do you need me to show you where it is, s-sir?” he trembles, like he doesn’t want to hear the answer, but is scared about the consequences of not asking.

“No thanks,” Wade peers to look at the guy’s name tag--Nathan. “Jared.”

Eankabuti and Jensen both look like they’re going to say something about whether or not Joshua’s name really is Joe, so he ruffles Eankabuti’s hair--it’s so soft, awwww--and nudges him out of the entrance. “No thanks, James!”

“Master--” Eankabuti sounds confused but he’s malleable, allowing himself to be pushed and shoved every which way as Wade walks them down a long, dank hallway. “We didn’t use any money. Do you--do you need money, master?” There’s something in Eankabuti’s voice that makes Wade take pause, just for a moment; he sounds…  _ scared.  _ Like he’s been lied to and lied to and he doesn’t know whether or not he should believe his own eyes over whatever it is that he’s been told. He’d already had it in his head that Eankabuti is a stickler for rules, but he hadn’t thought about that unfortunate fact transferring over to human laws; that promises to make things a whole lot more difficult in the future.

Finally, Wade finds the door that matches the number of his card, the paint peeling and the door splintering, and slides it in the available slot. It flashes green, and Wade ushers Eankabuti in. 

“Don’t worry about it, Spidey,” Wade says calmly, using the hand on the small of Eankabuti’s back to gently force him into the bedroom when he stumbles. “My criminal history gives me a few perks in some of these seedier establishments; it’s the only reason I even come here anymore. The employees are nearly all on coke, so they can’t call the cops on me without getting busted too--like a quid pro quo, ya dig?”

“Criminal?” Eankabuti asks, staring at one of the tiny beds as Wade edges around him, throwing his belt off of him and onto the bed. The same follows for his guns, his knives, and the few bombs he brought with him as well. Seemingly following Wade’s lead, he places his bottle gingerly on his own bed, where it stays for a good few seconds before Eankabuti snatches it up again. Wade pretends not to notice; he did just rip Eankabuti out of what had probably been the only home he has ever known, and if he needs a support-bottle to cope with America, then who is he to complain?

“It means I’ve done, like,” Wade hesitates. “Bad things before, to other people, and that lead to me breaking some of our human laws.”

Eankabuti nudges at the comforter on the bed with a toe, his other foot planted firmly on the ground; meaning that he’s just about made his legs into a perfect angle that didn’t look right coming from another dude. But--hold on--did genies even  _ have- _

“I’ve had bad things done to me before,” Eankabuti murmurs, almost like he’s not aware that Wade is standing next to him, listening to every word. Wade’s attention is directed to the lumpy bed when he speaks again: “I hate these things, I really do.”

Huh?

Really; who could possibly hate  _ beds _ ? Sure, Eankabuti is eccentric, and would probably prefer spinning his own bed out of,  _ ew,  _ webs like the little spidery boy he is, but proper, real beds are the best thing that has ever come out of humanity! That’s just a fact! He eyes Eankabuti, noticing how his lip curls, exposing a sharp--holy shit, that could kill a man!--tooth, and how he angles his body  _ away _ . Sometimes being a merc is good for things aside his bank account; the ability to read body language is probably the best thing about him, even if it is pretty useless in the grand scheme of, well,  _ life. _

“Well, they’re what we have! Just--oh shit, are you crying?”

Eankabuti might not be crying yet, Wade realises as he studies him, but his eyes have taken on a distinctly different sheen, and his mouth is quivering like he has something trapped behind them that wants out. “I don’t want to belong to anyone ever again, Wade,” Eankabuti says simply, voice scarily serene, eyes clouded with a thin sheen of silver tears. “You don’t understand--you can’t, they’re just  _ monsters,  _ and I know I look like a monster, but at least I’ve never--I’ve never-”

Wade hasn’t hated anyone as much as he hates the people that Eankabuti has been forced to interact with over the course of his life.

“Trust me, baby, you’re no monster. What’d they do to you, honey-bunny?” Wade asks, soft like he’s talking to a scared child, and Eankabuti looks conflicted. Wade knows by now that Eankabuti struggles with saying no, even when what he says isn’t phrased as a command, and he takes a deep breath. It’s not his business, but Eankabuti shouldn’t look so sad, so unhappy. He wasn’t made for that  _ shit _ , he was made for lazy Sundays, and kittens, and puppies and good things. Not whatever has happened to him that has him wanting to hide from Wade. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, Spidey.”

Eankabuti straightens at that, chin jutting out. “You don’t care about me or what I want,” he hisses, baring his teeth. They’re sharp, Wade notices, and black is draining from Eankabuti’s gums into them as they lengthen into what can only be spider fangs. Then, like a light had been switched, Eankabuti reverts back to his meek self, hand clasping over his mouth so Wade can’t see his elongated teeth anymore. “Master!” He says, voice muffled, and Wade tilts his head, considering the situation. So Eankabuti, the dear,  _ does  _ have a temper. Wade can understand not wanting other people to know his secrets, at least, so it’s a fair trigger for his… not-mutant mutation. “Please don’t make me--you must want me to get you something, yes? Jewels, or gold?”

“I don’t want to know your secret, babe,” Wade says, raising his hands in surrender. He’s not used to doing that, but he has a feeling he’s going to get a lot more practice. “I don’t want you to do anything for me at the moment either. Just… do what you like.” At the mischievous glint that shines in Eankabuti’s eyes like he’s a lion that has caught sight of a baby gazelle, Wade is quick to clarify. “Remembering not to run away or break the law unless you involve me! I will be very disappointed in you if you don’t involve me in your little schemes. And… if I ever make a wish that makes you uncomfortable or feel unsafe, you can ignore it. Okay?”

Not that he really thinks Eankabuti will actually break the law, but he likes to play on the safe side sometimes, like a loser. But he’s… angry. Frustrated. Afraid. People don’t act like Eankabuti, they don’t develop a fear of beds for no reason, they don’t just act that way because they want to…

And whatever it is that Eankabuti is hiding, it’s damaging him in more than one way if that one slip of his temper was any indication. So far, what had started off as a way to pass the time has turned into a rescue mission, where he hasn’t even made a single wish yet.

Whether that’s because he has more things than he thought he did, or because he doesn’t want to be like the assholes Eankabuti is used to, he isn’t sure.

He does spend the evening teaching Eankabuti how to make a pillowfort, though.

*

Wade takes them to the docks, watches Eankabuti while away the hours with a small smile on his face, his bracelets clinking together on his wrists as he splashed the water with mystical hands that weren't his own. Magic glowed, on him and around him, and Wade decides, then and there, that it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. He hopes he can see it again.

If he has his way, he's sure he will.

*

Maybe it's a dick move for him to have Eankabuti replace the Avengers Tower with a structurally sound hot dog, but they have a lot of fun watching Tony Stark arrive and freak the fuck out over his precious building. And maybe it makes him a bad role-model to introduce the genie to Weasel, and the beauty of drinking--he's strong as fuck, and beats like five guys at _once_ in an arm wrestling match at Sister Margaret's.

And maybe he shouldn't have let the poor baby release all of the zoo animals--there was some somewhat expected gore that came from that unfortunately.

They really hit the limit of their tomfoolery when they swapped Captain America's outfit with Black Widow's during a (fake and wished) alien fight. 

Okay, so maybe he and Eankabuti got carried away.

“Wade,” Colossus says, voice thick and gravelly. “Power is not made to be unchecked. Fate has given the creature a master, for a very good reason. He is powerful and there must be limitations.”

Negasonic Teenage blah, blah, blah tilts her head in agreement. “Yeah,” her eyes flick to meet his, staring him down in a way that would probably be terrifying if he hadn’t seen her embarrass herself in the best ways possible.

**_Remember when she tripped and fell on that pie that we left on the floor! Classic!_ **

“He’s being serious, Wade,” she continues, pointedly ignoring Wade’s sniggering at the memories. “The guy is a weapon if he doesn’t have rules, or something to control him, right? You can’t just give a guy, who has, like, unlimited powers and that likes causing trouble unrestricted freedom. There have to be sacrifices, okay? You can’t just… unleash that on the world.”

They sound serious. A million emotions bubble in Wade’s chest, anger and fear and frustration tangling together in a confusing knot that encircles his heart. He thought that they would  _ understand.  _ They know what he went through, they know all about Weapon-X, and they know what always happens to people that are  _ special.  _ They get taken and ripped apart and put back together in different ways, making them less human, and then they point at them and call them monsters. All Eankabuti wants is to be free _ ,  _ and maybe Wade’s heart is aching because he remembers that feeling. Maybe it’s because he was only tied down by people, and it’s in Eankabuti’s nature to be used and discarded, and then used again. Maybe he’s grinding his teeth because they’re assuming that Eankabuti will just be bad based on what he is.

_ Fucking. X-Men. _

...But they’re the X-Men. What if they’re right? What if Eankabuti, Eankabuti with his curiosity and innocence and innate  _ goodness,  _ is changed? What if Wade is dooming him to being shackled in a worse place than a beautiful bottle, or killed?

“I’ll work it out,” he hears himself say. “It’ll all work out, and then I’ll be out of your hair and--and that’s that.”

They both raise their eyebrows, and Colossus opens his mouth like he wants to ask what he’s going to do, and Wade just turns away. He doesn’t run, but he does walk briskly, a new weight added to his burdens as he tries to make a decision. Maybe trying to be a hero really has ruined him, he thinks, and knocks something that looks expensive off of a table. Maybe Colossus always trying to condition him to like and trust the X-Men actually worked, because he wants Eankabuti to be free, and he wants the X-Men to leave Eankabuti alone (because they’re going to try and recruit him, Wade knows it in his bones, or worse if they think he’s a threat), and he just wants to be  _ gone.  _ Caring doesn’t help anyone, and neither does keeping promises, but the thought of him letting down Eankabuti and watching his eyes fill with silver tears is too painful to bear.

The knot that has surrounded his heart tightens, and he finds Eankabuti sitting with a child in one of the common areas. The kid is a young girl who has blonde hair, and a sharp looking tail that is wrapped around one of Eankabuti’s wrists, above his golden cuff. He opens his mouth to tell Eankabuti that they’re leaving, ready to let his bad mood linger slightly, but he can’t.

Instead, he asks. “Eankabuti,” it’s not because he cares, it’s because the poor guy deserves to be listened to as well, deserves to have a choice. “Ready to leave, baby-boy?”

The little girl looks back at him, violet eyes widening at the sight of his face. She whispers something to Eankabuti, hands cupped around her mouth, and Wade just waits. Not patiently; his arms are crossed over his chest, and his foot is tapping an irregular beat, but he still waits. Eankabuti replies to the girl, voice just hushed enough that Wade can’t hear him, and he still waits. He can feel his heart slowing, the tension in his shoulders loosening slightly, and he exhales. 

He likes kids. He always has.

Eankabuti turns back to him, and smiles. Wade can’t even imagine him doing anything evil, or anything that would require him to be…  _ taken out,  _ like he’s a pest or a disease, or a threat that has done anything more than bare some surprisingly large teeth at Wade, who would have deserved way worse.

That’s not who Eankabuti is, that’s not what he deserves…

But the X-Men have the experience. And, he has to shamefully admit, they also have a point.

“I wish,” Wade says, his fingers curling protectively around Eankabuti’s bicep as they stroll into the hall of the mansion, his heavy boots leaving marks all over the nice carpet. “That we were back at the motel, in the room we have been staying recently.”

Sometimes, Eankabuti really does remind him of a child. He doesn’t even question Wade, just smiles softly and clicks his fingers, the soothing  _ “Yes, Master,”  _ filling Wade’s head more than a bullet to the brain ever has.

Blinded by smoke, Wade opens his eyes to the dim lighting of their room.

“Eankabuti,” Wade says, in what he hopes is a soothing, calming voice. This will be hard enough without him unnecessarily freaking his baby boy out. “I want to make a wish, please.”

Eankabuti blinks before smiling, not even hesitating to flash Wade his teeth. Wade is glad; no one that looks like Eankabuti should ever be insecure about their appearance. He drops the picture book Wade had bought him only days before, evidently having only just picked it up anyway, pulling himself up until he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. “What are we doing now?”

This is the right thing to do, right?

It has to be.

“I wish that I could die,” Wade says, ignoring the little niggling of doubt that has buried itself under his skin, crawling like maggots in seek of food. “And I wish that you were human. Not a mutant, or anything special, just a human who didn’t remember any of this. Not me, not being a genie, not any of it.”

Eankabuti’s hand twitches, and Wade knows the routine off by heart now. Eankabuti will lift his hand up, snap his fingers, and smoke will fill the room in blues and reds and purples, and the wish will be reality. Wade tries to find proof that he’s right in Eankabuti’s eyes, looking for relief or happiness, but he can’t find it; instead, Eankabuti looks confused. Taken aback. Like he doesn’t know what to think, like he doesn’t know why Wade is playing such a mean joke on him. “That’s not funny,” Eankabuti says, laughing awkwardly anyway. Wade ignores the way Eankabuti is pressing his right hand into the ground with his left one, fingers splayed and clenching against the shitty carpet. “Take it back, otherwise I’ll-”

“I’m not taking it back, bub.” Wade says, and closes his eyes when Eankabuti flinches away. “It’s for the best, okay? You won’t even remember having powers, you’ll just be normal and you can be  _ free. _ ”

_ You heard what they said,  _ White hisses,  _ power can’t be unchecked.  _

**_Leave him alone!_ ** Yellow says, his voice a shrill whimper that reverberates in Wade’s mind.

“No,” Eankabuti shakes his head wildly. “No, you can’t do this to me, please--please, master,  _ Wade,  _ you can’t just take away who I am. I can’t kill you either, you know the rules, just take it back, okay? Please, and we can talk,  _ please.” _

Wade is almost worried about Eankabuti passing out; his eyes are flickering around the room like he’s looking for an escape from his own nature, the way everything about him is going to ruin (not ruin,  _ save _ , Wade reminds himself) his life. “C’mon, bud, I promise it’s going to be okay, baby boy. You don’t have to kill me, just reverse my mutation, alright?”

“Your wish is making me feel u-uncomfortable and--and unsafe,” Eankabuti wheezes, face screwed up in what Wade can tentatively identify as pain, or discomfort. His breathing is coming in short, sharp gasps, and Wade can see how his pupils are blown wide, eyes misty with tell-tale, glowing silver-blue tears. His fangs are lengthening too, visible as Eankabuti pants, breathing open-mouthed like he’s dying. “A-and I don’t have to--to grant it. You said-”

_ Fuck.  _ Eankabuti really is too clever for his own good, isn’t he?

“Buti, I wish that you have to obey me no matter how you feel about it,” Wade says, and draws back at the wounded, animalistic howl that leaves Eankabuti’s mouth at his words. “Just do it, you’ll feel so much better, babe, I promise, this is what you need, Spidey.”

Eankabuti whines at the nickname. Wade reaches for him, but pulls back when Eankabuti flinches away, his hands curling protectively over his chest instead, fingers digging into the meat of his palms. “You don’t care about what I want, o-or what I need,” he whimpers, and Wade’s heart hurts. “None of them-- _ he  _ didn’t care, and now--now you’re just going to steal from me, just like him!”

Eankabuti bites at his bottom lip, flashing Wade his sharp canines while he does. Wade is tempted to make a wish, and stop Eankabuti from hurting himself, but he’s… he’s not like that. He can’t decide to change what his genie is feeling, ‘cause that has to be fucked up on all sorts of levels. “Who’s he, baby boy? One of your old…” he doesn’t want to say master, but what else is there to say? Anything he changes it to won’t make it lose its meaning. Eankabuti’s hand isn’t on the floor anymore, but it’s still held by his left hand tight enough to break bones, just so he can’t click his fingers.

Dust is sent swirling through the air as smoke creeps around Eankabuti’s legs, made visible by the dim yellow lighting, and Eankabuti has his jaw clenched tight. “I hate you, I hate you, I--I fucking hate you-” unlike before, Eankabuti spits the title like it means nothing to him. “You just used me and now y-you’re  _ stealing  _ from me.”

A bad feeling is pooling in Wade’s gut, a poison that curdles his blood and scorches his bones from the inside out.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Wade says, more hesitantly than before, but ignoring the way that Eankabuti is thrumming with a dangerous kind of adrenaline. He can take a hit or five, if Eankabuti lashes out. Based on the way he’s so determined . “But it might help, if you do want to. I won’t force you.” 

Eankabuti’s face screws up, like the concept is strange and unfamiliar, and Wade’s heart twists in his chest. Something makes the dam burst, though, because tears are dripping down his cheeks, his skin reacting to the blue luminescence of them; the gold that shifts and swirls under the skin in his cheeks is chased away, and Wade mourns its loss. “He-” Eankabuti begins, voice shaky and raw, talking quickly. “His name was Skip, a-and I was so  _ stupid and young,  _ and he was my first master, and I trusted him! I wanted to be his friend!” His voice breaks over the word, and Wade can feel the implied  _ I trusted you too _ . “And then he--he made me do things, and I didn’t want to but I couldn’t say  _ no. _ He made me thank him, and it was too late for me to trick him into wishing me away! He knew my name, and he used it to make me trust him-”

“What did he do?” Wade asks, voice hard and stiff, the fingers of one hand playing idly with the knife hidden in a secret pocket on his thigh. 

Spidey sobs, a raw, ugly sob that makes Wade’s diaphragm hurt too. “Stop it, Wade! Stop it, I’ll die, please, it’ll kill me, please--I trust you, my name is Peter, I’m trusting you just let me go-”

**Art by sillytheotterarts on tumblr**

Fuck.  _ Fuck.  _

“Peter,” Wade says, as calmly as he possibly can, testing the word on his tongue. “Petey. Baby boy.” When he finally has Peter’s attention, he speaks slowly and purposefully. “I wish-” the look in Peter’s eyes, of raw fear and resignation almost makes him want to throw up.  _ Jesus,  _ what did he sign himself up for? “Stop. Don’t grant the last few wishes. It’s okay.”

Peter sags immediately, the smoke that had been winding up from his legs to reach his torso dissipating. He’s still crying, heart-wrenching sobs being torn from his throat as he bends forward, sitting on his knees and pressing his forehead into the grimy floor. His hands are still curled against his chest, and he’s shaking like a leaf on a breeze.

What has he done?

In the cloud of self-loathing he had trapped himself in, had he really tried to--to do that? Had he really tried to make Peter do something, kicking and crying, because he thought he knew best? Wade had thought… he thought that Peter hadn’t wanted to be what he is, he had wanted to  _ save  _ him.

“You would have killed me,” Peter sobs, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes. “I can’t be alive without that magic, nature would have demanded my life as retribution--but you would have killed me!”

No.  _ No. _

“I trusted you, and y-you said you would be different, but you’re not.” Peter combs his fingers through his hair, whining like a bear-cup caught in a trap, before his facade is slipped back on. “Isn’t it a nuisance, master?” Peter scrambles forward and Wade falls back, caught hopelessly in his eyes of molten gold, swirling and gleaming and shifting in the new lighting. “To have to worry so much about every little wish? It would be so much easier to just to… do something else, wouldn’t it?” Something wet drips down onto Wade’s cheek, but he can’t look away from Peter’s eyes.

“It would be so much easier…” It would be, wouldn’t it? If he and Peter went their separate ways, and they weren’t forced to interact with each other?

It sounds easier.

“Go away,” Wade says, staring up into Peter’s eyes like they’re the only thing in the world worth seeing. They might be. All he can see is how close all of his dreams are, how much he doesn’t need Peter, and how much he needs Peter gone so he can prove that he doesn’t need magic, or an ace up his sleeve to work his stuff.

...By the time he comes to his senses, Peter is gone.

*

When things get tough, Wade tends to do one of two things: run (because his costume had only  _ just  _ been cleaned and it had cost a fortune to get burnt flesh out of it)-

_ Do you mean the smell of burnt flesh? _

**_He doesn’t._ **

-and fight (because it’s the only thing he really knows how to do, and he has always been good at being the biggest, the baddest, and the meanest kid around).

For this, though, he doesn’t think he can do either; no, for this, he needs to do something that, as a Canadian, should probably feel like second nature if not make up his entire personality: of course, by that, Wade means that he needs to apologise. And get down on his knees and beg, not to be forgiven, but for Peter to know that he’s safe. So he knows that he has nothing to worry about, so he knows that what Wade had done was disgusting and wrong. So he knows that that’s not how life is supposed to be. He needs to make a difference, a good one, which is something that he isn’t really used to, as a mercenary and a bad friend, but now…

He had just tried to create a murder-suicide scene in their little motel room, the room where he and Peter had plastered their drawings to the walls and childrens’ books were stacked gently on the rickety bedside table because Peter had been learning how to read, and Wade had been put in the position of teacher (for the first time). In their room where he’s laying, sprawled across the shabby floor like he’s had a bit too much to drink, head throbbing like he knows the world’s secrets.

Like Peter has shown him them all.

So it isn’t a trick after all. It isn’t a sleight of hand, a play on the words--or at least it hadn’t been for Wade. It’s looking at someone and seeing something that makes sense in a crazy world, that just… doesn’t.

It’s knowing that letting him go is the only right decision you’ll ever make, looking back at what little you gained from your wishes, knowing that you didn’t need them, and seeing the wreck they made you reflected in his pools of gold that left the world’s most valuable treasures looking dull in comparison.

He can feel his breath being stolen from his lungs, his heart squeezing uncomfortably behind its cage of bones.

Wade has never known what he needs. Not really. 

His mom had been just as bad as his dad. Going into Weapon-X was all about not dying in the first place. They had been fantasies that have… been blown apart by the few days he had been with Peter.

He needs to leave.

But, when he stands up, he notices something that he hadn’t before. Peter’s bottle is resting innocently on the floor where Peter had been sitting, pristine and untouched even though Wade knows that Peter needs to be in there until he finds a new master. The bottle isn’t stoppered though, and it’s empty when he peers inside…

Wade has never seen such an obvious invitation before.

*

He finds Peter in their spot. It’s not that he considers it their spot, not really, it’s just that the sight of Peter at the dock is forever ingrained in his mind, the sight of his toes just barely skimming the water, silver fish coming up to boldly swim by his feet too unforgettable to be shooed away.

Apparently Peter feels the same way. His body tenses when he feels Wade’s presence, but he doesn’t turn around.

Like a bird with a song on the tip of his tongue, Wade sings like a canary. He apologises, he begs, he tries to offer Peter his bottle back, he does everything short of rip his mask off so Peter can see the sincerity radiating from his pores.

Peter vanishes without a word, the smoke building from his toes to envelop the rest of his body, and Wade is left feeling more like a cat, a predator, to Peter’s songbird.

He still has Peter’s bottle.

*

It takes two weeks. Two fucking weeks of finding Peter in every place they visited, every diner and every theme-park, every building and every alley way. Wade has almost given up by the time he arrives home to the dank motel he hasn’t dared leave yet, only to find Peter worrying his lower lip by the door.

He doesn’t disappear when he locks eyes with Wade, just looks sheepish and ashamed, even though it should be just Wade that feels like shit with how everything turned out.

“I didn’t need my bottle,” Peter says when Wade gets closer, accepting said bottle when it’s offered to him. “Because I didn’t want to leave. After every master, I went back in because it was the only way to heal… but trying just made me feel sick inside this time. So I couldn’t hide.”

“Can I kiss you?”

The question is uncalled for, and Peter looks up from where he had been tracing the golden webs along the bottle with his eyes, clearly startled. A second passes where Wade is forced to hold his breath, but this is Peter’s choice. 

He knows he hasn’t been given many of those before.

...Against all rationale, Peter nods. It’s slow, but it’s confident, and Wade steps forward until Peter raises his voice. “Please,” he sounds like he’s on the verge of begging. “Please take off your mask. You’ve seen me, and…”

He doesn’t have to finish; Wade can hear the  _ I want to see you too  _ just as clearly as if it had been spoken aloud, and he can’t find any part of himself that can argue with Peter. Not now, when he owes him this much.

Wade kisses Peter with a bare face, and just about a thousand things happen all at once.

Peter gasps, his mouth opening slightly as he winds his arms around Wade’s neck, pushing into him while his knuckles press gently against the nape of Wade’s bare neck, his fingers gripping gently onto the bottle. He’s warm, like he just runs hot, and Wade deepens the kiss, his fingers digging into the flesh beneath Peter’s ribs like he can use him as a personal heater. It works at least, because Wade can feel flames licking across his insides, heat coiling in his gut and sparks flying behind his eyelids.

This is… better than anything Wade could have ever imagined.

It’s better than looking into Peter’s eyes, better than watching him view the world through young eyes and an old soul, better than seeing the best of humanity with Peter by his side, and that’s saying something. That’s saying a lot, and Wade tries to convey that through the tilt of his head, the passion that floods him all the way down to his toes.

He knows that Peter can feel the apology that he’s been saying for the last two weeks pouring out of him like a flood, but he doesn’t try and rein himself in; not this time.

Peter’s bottle slips from his fingers, and instead of being impervious to harm, instead of righting itself before hitting the concrete, it lands with an almighty crash that might have startled them if this were a normal kiss.

As it is, nothing matters but them, and the way Peter pours his whole soul into him, while Wade returns the favour with his own. When they finally break away--even though Wade is more than willing to die of suffocation for Peter, he’s not sure Peter would love hauling around a corpse--Peter holds him gently by the side of his face.

“I forgive you.” Peter breathes, his lips kiss swollen and his hair mussed. “For everything.” Wade isn’t sure that he quite deserves a thank you, and his hesitance must translate through to his face because Peter presses a gentle kiss to the side of his face, warms lips a soothing balm for the constant sting of his scars shifting. “Thank you for asking-” another kiss, “-for trying to make things right-” and another, “-and for--for making me feel like a friend instead of an item.”

“I kind of lost that towards the end, though, didn’t I?” Wade says, not really asking a question, but trying hard to summon the self-hatred he had felt so deeply and viciously before. It abandons him when he’s with Peter, though.

Peter doesn’t deny it, but he glances towards the bottle at his feet. “I wanted to become like a human so I could have friends in you all,” he frowns. “So I could find love in you all. I had never, ever gotten that… until today.”

_ Wait--what does that mean? Why is that important?! Answers?! _

Peter answers the unspoken question like he can hear the voices right from their spot in Wade’s brain. “I feel… different.” Peter offers the words up like they’re hard to reach, pulled from the deepest pits of his heart. “You--you fixed it. You  _ fixed  _ me.”

The bottle crunches under their feet, broken into a million pieces of red and blue, smoke curling in tendrils from the shards.

“What does that mean?” Wade’s voice is a whisper, his eyes boring into Peter like he’s afraid he’ll disappear into a cloud of smoke.

“I don’t know,” Peter smiles, a true beautiful smile that makes Wade crack a grin as well. “...But we can figure it out?”

Maybe genies aren’t meant to exist, maybe Peter’s lonely existence is proof of that, but that doesn’t change the very simple fact that Peter--without his powers, without his ability, without even trying--managed to be everything that Wade has been wanting for longer than he’ll ever know.

And he’s been the master--no, the  _ friend _ \-- that Peter has been needing, the person who let him see that there was more to being whole than servitude, more to being alive than living for someone else, and now...

Peter isn’t his, and he isn’t Peter’s, but they’re still together.

That has to count for something.

**Author's Note:**

> if you want to help support a struggling artist, click [HERE](https://patreon.com/bloodrunsred)


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